


You Have A Happy Fucking Thanksgiving, Too.

by orphan_account



Category: Boondock Saints (1999)
Genre: Boondock Saints (1999) - Freeform, Family, Gen, Thanksgiving, comical, holiday fic, mild swearing, minor original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brothers go to New York for a very merry Thanksgiving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Have A Happy Fucking Thanksgiving, Too.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elmathelas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmathelas/gifts).



> Thanks to AR for the beta. What better time to write Thanksgiving fic than for a Christmas fic exchange? The song they sing at the table is A Fairytale of New York, by The Pogues.

Raining down terror and bloody vengeance on the wicked made it fucking hard to plan when a get-together in New York, when they actually got to New York. It took longer to get from Boston to the Big Apple than you'd expect, except they were bringing justice to the innocent in a shower of blood and bullets, and that made you do things you'd never thought you would, like miss trains.

"Ain't my fucking fault." Connor had said. "_You_ were the one who didn't wanna bring a bloody fucking crowbar."

"Oh, shut up," Murphy had retorted. "We got it done anyway."

"Yeah, but not on _time_."

A small fistfight had ensued, ending with both their heads, at one point, entering a toilet. Da had watched with an eyebrow raised, or Murphy _thought_ his eyebrow had been raised. It was hard to tell under his cap and sunglasses and all.

They'd decided to meet Ma in New York on Thanksgiving, in any case, since Christmas was too damn hokey and Saint Paddy's Day'd never be the same. It was as holy as Christmas, now, to the brothers, but not holy in the kinda way you'd want to mix with Christmas. Killing a man for God is sanctified as anything, but not in the same way as Christmas, not quite.

Explaining this to Ma had been an earful, especially since they weren't really explaining so much as saying lots of words that meant other words and things, which really wasn't a lie so much as keeping the innocent all good and properly innocent.

"Your Ma ain't so innocent as you'd think, boys." Da had said.

"We know." Connor had replied while reloading his gun, "The things she'd say when she was in a piss poor mood?" Connor'd whistled, then.

"And the word you're looking for is _euphemism_." Murphy'd walked outta the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist with a comb still in his hair.

Da had thrown his hat at him. "Don't correct your fucking father." He'd smiled, though, and Murphy'd caught the hat and dropped the comb (and the towel) and they'd laughed.

So it'd been a few months later and all before they ended up in a crap apartment in Astoria, double-locked and full of guns that they'd return to and hightail it the fuck out when Thanksgiving dinner was over.

"Fuck, though." Murphy had said, "If I missed anything about home, it's Ma's cooking."

"Prison food just don't compare." Connor'd said, and Da had turned.

"What'd you know about prison food, eh?" He'd asked, and Connor had smiled and pointed to Murphy:

"You ever ate his cooking?"

In the ensuing fistfight, nobody got their heads shoved in a toilet, but that was mostly because there were no toilets readily available. Murphy did get his head stuck in the subway doors, but Connor pulled him out before the train started.

Da was definitely rolling his eyes this time. Murphy could tell.

•

Fuck those fucking motherfuckers, if they ever hung up on him again, _he_ was going to kill_ them_. Forget ridiculous skill in all things bullet-shooting versus aging fag cop, there were just some professional boundaries you did not _cross_ (nevermind the fact that the twins McManus were hardly what anyone would call a professional at anything, or that Smecker was hardly a professional at the art of police-cover-up-inside-job-masturbatory-bullshittery. It was the _principle_).

Greenly sat behind him in the car, checking out his increasingly foul countenance in the rear-view mirror. "You okay, boss? Sir?"

"I will be perfectly _fine_ so long as you don't feel the need to add 'chief' to my list of epithets short of a hasty promotion." Smecker turned the corner, driving steadily away from the payphone of doom, death and dismemberment to his ego (he would miss it). "In layman's terms for your Cro-Magnon linguistic facilities-- _yes_."

Driving up to the scene of the crime, Smecker added one more thing before they got out of the car. "And I'm in the mood for a latte today. Decaf, skim milk, you should know this by _now_."

Watching Greenly walk off, dejected and pissed off and god knew what-- Smecker did not like to dive _too_ deep into the thought processes of that one; he never knew if he would leave _unscathed_\-- Smecker went over the message again. Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving? He occasionally forgot what utter _boys_ these avenging angels were.

It was the constant debate: did they kill because they were children, or trying to reclaim their innocence? Why were they doing this? Societies such as this one did not create creatures such as the McManus brothers and see fit to make them psychologically healthy, too. What kind of men took the word of god into their own hands?

"Here's your coffee, chief-- sir. Uh, Mr Smecker." Greenly's hand, outstretched, was actually shaking.

Smecker smiled. He took the coffee. Fuck philosophy and Freudian bullshit, he had better things to do. The wheels were already in motion, anyway. Who gave a flying fuck how they got there.

It was what they would do now, turning, that one should watch out for.

•

Nothing quite reminds a man of his mortality like standing around in Woodside in November waiting for someone to come and answer the goddamn door. Connor has that look on his face, the one where he's about to start screaming for someone to get off their asses and let 'em in, and Murphy's just trying to keep his ears from freezing off. New York winters are brutal, not that Boston ones are any rosier.

"Fuck, fuck fuck." Connor says, and then raises his hand to knock again except Da stops him, and Murphy gives up his best shit-eating grin to say, "That's rude; I betcha she heard you the first time."

So that's how Ma came to the door to see her sons and husband for the first time in who knows how many years, only to find her husband beating her twins with a cane 'cause they were fighting about some shit she don't want to know about. Ma shrugs and gives Da a peck on the cheek like she's seem 'em all together before in less than a year and they stumble inside to feel the blood rush back into all the cold parts of their bodies. Yes, this is what home feels like.

"Your all your cousins are here, except I'm betting you don't recognize half of 'em on account of you being up north for god knows how long, doing god knows what." Ma's still got that comforting accent, more like Queens than Ireland, and most like Astoria than anything. Both the boys will forever associate it with home, safety, and Christopher Walken.

"Meat packing." Connor speaks up.

"My ass and two parts." She gives them a look like she smelled a rat that happens to be an exceptionable bad liar when it comes to his mother. It's something about his tone. "Sit the fuck down, I'm almost done cooking dinner."

As commanded, Connor and Murphy sit the fuck down. Da of course was above these minor ordinances of man, and followed Ma into the kitchen, wherein they got into some serious multilingual screaming match. Murphy smiles and Connor tries to smile and they tune it out like the good children they pretend to remember being.

It takes the both of them three heartbeats to realize they're the only men at the table, and a few more after that for it to click that all these women are presumably their cousins.

"Lemme see." Connor starts, pointing them off as he goes along. "Shirley, Toni, and... Maddy?"

"Tabitha, but you were close," says, apparently, Tabitha.

(Who the fuck knew someone in their family was named fucking _Tabitha_?)

After that, the girl cousin girls decided it'd be best if they sounded off their own fucking names. Patricia was Ma's sister's daughter, while Toni and Shirley were their great-aunt's kid's kid's from her second marriage (Maggy and Rose-- from the first marriage-- couldn't make it because snow in Fells Point had fucked up their train schedule-- global warming if you asked Toni, but Shirley countered that wasn't global warming supposed to make it _warm_? Grudgingly, those seated at the table had to agree). Cheryl and Lynn were twins, and they held hands as they said it, and Connor tried to imagine holding hands with his brother like that but only could imagine beating himself up for it. Anne was last, being someone else's cousin's cousin's sister by marriage, and only here because nowhere else would have her, straight from the horse's mouth.

"So," Said Cheryl, all full of smiles and stuff (not surprising, because last Murphy could remember from postcards and shit, she'd been some kinda hostess at Olive Garden). "What do you two do up in Boston?"

"Meat packing, mostly." Says Connor, and Murphy follows in with "Yeah, we take all the bits of pig and _pack_ 'em till they don't look like pig no more."

The girls fail to make the properly grossed-out faces, possibly because they are no longer twelve. Luckily, Ma waddles into the dining area in time to save them from whatever it is they need saving from (home again, home again, jiggety-jig). She sets the turkey in front of them and as Da starts cutting the bird, she raises a toast like Connor imagines she has every year in their absence. "Happy Thanksgiving, you ass."

The boy's faces light up, and Connor is more happy to hum the tune a month early and tone-deaf to boot. "I pray to God it's your last."

Murphy jumps in, "The boys of the NYPD choir's still singing Galway Bay--"

And it isn't long before the entire table's joined in because ain't they just the happiest of stereotypes. "And the bells're ringing out, for Christmas day!"

It's then that Connor hits Murphy over the head with one of the baked potatoes. "Wrong fucking holiday, Murphy!"

In the wrestling match that follows, both the boys fall outta their chairs, onto the floor. Murphy's got Connor in a headlock, clearly the winner, before Da pulls 'em apart. Ma's just standing over her glass of Merlot, eyebrows raised.

•

Smecker won't hear from them again for a few months, and not for lack of trying to get in contact with their sorry donkey asses. If they get caught, it's his neck too, after all. Something to remember the next time he goes and puts his life on the line for two testosterone-charged idiots with dicks bigger than their brains (he imagines).

They don't get caught. Or at least, he doesn't think they do. Sometime in January, some high-profile mob boss gets knocked off in lower Manhattan, anyway. Whatever they were doing during their brief hiatus, Smecker doesn't want to know (he tells himself), which isn't to say that he cares, except that he does, and fuck all of them three times to fucking hell but he admits it.

Call it professional curiosity. It's both the least and the most Paul Smecker can do.


End file.
